a) do not get it, whatever it is, and
b) are intent in shooting themselves in the foot.
Pissed off at the fact that most large multi-nationals pay sod-all corporation tax (never mind that the board would be failing in its fiduciary duties to shareholders if it arranged matters so that it paid more than necessary), four cabinet ministers (amongst their number, in a superb but doubtless unintentional flight of irony, the minister for Small/Medium Business and Innovation) commissioned a report to suggest things that might correct this obviously unpalatable situation.
The justification seems to be that the photos, blogs and search histories compiled by the companies constitute the result of "work" performed for the companies by the (sadly) unpaid users of their services, and that the companies in question profit unfairly from this work. Basically, they would like Google to pay payroll tax on the presumed value of Blogger posts, and photos of cats in compromising positions. (Personally I reckon they're sitting on a little gold-mine with me, but I digress.)
Although I have to admit that that over-rated egoistic pompous windbag Sartre never made me laugh. Fume, yes, and want to strangle small animals, I admit, but never once have I wished even to giggle on confronting the turgid sod.
This is due to the Benny Hill syndrome, wherein it is universally acknowledged that any man turning up with a woman at some public facility is assumed to be her husband, with dubiously hilarious results.
I suppose I got off lightly, because it wasn't until she actually got released after blood tests and godnose what else that I was publicly upbraided by the head nurse (a rather attractive brunette by the way, maybe I should have considered a career in medicine) who loudly wondered how I could not have seen that she was sick and not eating, and that I should really pull my act together and make sure she was kept warm and properly fed. With the underlying threat of a visit from social services if I didn't improve.
Also, as there seems to be some rule or ancient charter or something that says that in a hospital you absolutely have to hang around for three hours or so whilst machines go ping! and, very busily, nothing happens apart from a growing feeling of tedium which makes you start to look for repeating patterns in the lino flooring just for something to do in between the odd apparition of a nurse just checking that no-one has actually died yet, nor seems likely to do so, I was terminally bored and kind of late to the market.
I swear to god, he could have done it himself with five minutes busy googling and a few notions of arcane language syntax (I must admit I have an advantage on him there, having being exposed to any number of oddball computer languages over the years, even SNOBOL from the Griswold family, and I can recognise something that looks like a regular expression when I see it and then work back from that) but still, it would have been better had he just followed my instructions to the letter.
Whatever, I was still feeling quite pleased with myself because, completely on the off-chance, I'd wandered into Franprix and found some golden syrup. And some Roses Lime Marmelade, which is an added bonus.
Franprix, should you be wondering, is kind of like Felix Potin used to be back in the day, when Ian would go off to one to get a couple of six-franc bottles of white wine/floor-cleaner (and in reality they were half that price, 'cos you got three francs back when you took the empty bottle back, which is an inducement to alcoholism if you ask me) and some chalky round thing with aspirations to Camembert: smallish city-centre supermarkets.
Anyway, the point is that as I was moving around trying to get as decent a shot as possible, I literally stumbled on their Alimentation du Monde section and found row upon row of golden syrup and diverse jams and marmelades and Lea & Perrins and green curry paste and peanut butter, all at about half the price of Carrefour, when Carrefour actually has any in stock.
The general consensus was that it wasn't half bad, so I'm sure I've left a couple of ideas bubbling around in the cook's mind. (Which reminds me, Jerry has a second interview on Tuesday at a restaurant in Montmelian. Would be rather good if he gets that job.)
Before I go, an edifying thought ... some of you may remember crabs from your dissolute past: it seems that our old friend the pubic louse is becoming an endangered species, due to the increasingly rapid deforestation of its native habitat. And for once, I think you'd be hard put to it to prove that this itself is a result of global warming